


Beside the Fire

by hecate_01



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Jrox inspired phantom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29190057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hecate_01/pseuds/hecate_01
Summary: Erik gives Christine a gift during one of her visits to his lair.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Beside the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Someone requested me to write a short fanfic featuring a Jonathan Roxmouth-inspired Phantom. I have this up on my new writing blog on tumblr, but I decided to post it here as well!
> 
> Here's my blog if you wish to follow me and submit requests: https://pleasemonsieuranothernote.tumblr.com/

Beyond the mirror and in the eternal night of the fifth cellar’s mire, Christine could hear the pitter-patter of leaking water dripping onto the glassy lake. Empty coldness hung in the stuffy, moist air, sending aching shivers along her flesh and deep into her marrow. Had Erik’s company not been so enjoyable, she would’ve stopped visiting this desolate, frozen dungeon long ago.

‘But that’s not right,’ Christine thought as Erik moored the gondola and offered her his large, burly hands. ‘He needs me.’

“Christine,” he said, smiling as he guided her up a short flight of stairs towards the living room. “I have a surprise for you.”

“What is it?”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you. Are you very cold, dear? You’re shivering.”

“A little, yeah.”

“Come, sit beside the fireplace, and I will bring your gift to you.”

Christine thanked him, and plopped down onto the ornate, ruby-red and sapphire-blue Persian carpet, which blanketed the living room floor.

Erik busied himself with kindling the stone fireplace into a roaring blaze. His strong arms gathered and tossed in logs of wood; his muscular legs braced against the tight fabric of his pants as he leaned down to ignite the kindling. Although his movements were elegant and genteel, his body was all leverage, rippling with brutish, Machiavellian cruelty that lied in wait.

“My angel, is something the matter?”

And yet, when his heterochromatic eyes glimmered so sincerely and tenderly at her, how could she ever truly fear him?

“I’m alright.”

“Are you sure? You look disconcerted. Do you wish to leave?”

“Oh no, I’m fine! I’m just cold, is all.”

He nodded slowly, glancing downwards as Christine scooted closer, warming her hands.

“Really, I’m fine,” she reassured, smiling.

“Very well. I’ll go retrieve your present,” Erik excused himself and strode into the other room.

Christine looked up, admiring the unique oddities on the mantle: two little, golden bookends shaped like camels; a red, ceramic urn; a peacock feather. Although all were pleasing to the eye, Christine couldn’t help but marvel at the crown jewel of the mantle – a strange, curved sword, supported by a golden stand. It was unlike anything she had seen before. She wrestled and suppressed the temptation to grasp and unsheathe it; no doubt, Erik would be very upset if any harm befell such a rare beauty. Therefore, Christine elected to place no confidence in her graceless hands.

“I see you’ve taken a liking to the shamshir.”

Christine jumped, her wide eyes glancing over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry! It’s just so beautiful, and I’ve never seen a sword like that before!”

“There’s no need to apologize, dear.”

Erik had stripped himself of his jacket, waistcoat, and tie, donning his favorite Mandarin robe. The gold and silver and sapphire thread caught the glowing, amber light of the fire, shimmering like the opalescent wings of a scarab beetle. He held a large, flat, black box in his hands. He sauntered towards her and lovingly placed it in her lap.

“I sincerely hope you enjoy it,” Erik said as he settled down next to her, smiling with eager eyes. “It was quite difficult to procure.”

Christine carefully lifted the top of the box, removed the golden tissue paper, and lifted an obsidian-black, floor-length, silken robe that had been nestled inside. Kaleidoscopic flowers of priceless pink, jade-green, tiger’s eye, aqua thread, with glimmering, jet pistils, adorned the front, back, and sleeves of the robe. The loose, flowing cuffs were set and adorned with silver thread. A simple, silk tie hung around the waist. Christine could hardly breathe; never had she received so opulent a gift.

“Is it to your liking? I’ve noticed your admiration of my robe, so I thought it fitting to gift you one of your very own, albeit in a more feminine style. You are quiet. Is something the matter?” Erik interrogated, his words desperately flinging themselves into the air, intolerant of the silence.

“It’s – It’s beautiful! Thank you! It’s really for me?”

“Yes, all for you, my dear,” he said, a relaxed smile easing onto his lips.

She slipped her arms through the sleeves and fastened the robe around her waist.

“It’s so soft,” Christine cooed, rubbing her cheek against her sleeve. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“Of course not, but I did so anyway,” he said as he passionately took her hand in both of his.

“You’re too generous with me,” Christine teased, planting a kiss on his cheek. 

“I love you,” he whispered, his breath shaky. 

“I love you, too.”

Erik lifted her chin and pressed his soft, warm lips against hers for a brief, tender moment. 

As he pulled away, he stood up and gently lifted the sword from its stand. Kneeling at Christine’s side, he offered it to her.

“Can I really hold it?”

“Yes, angel. Do be careful, though.”

“What is it called, again?” Christine asked as she turned it around in her hands, examining it and admiring how the golden sheath shown in the fire’s light.

“A shamshir, Christine. I procured it during my time spent in Persia.”

“How did you get it?”

“It’s quite a long story, dear.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

As Erik wove his tale and the roaring fire died into whispering embers, Christine rested her sleepy head on one of his sturdy thighs, and smiled softly. Coldness was but a distant, hazy memory to her.


End file.
